


held

by dreamtiwasanarchitect



Category: Trust (TV 2018)
Genre: Age Difference, Consent Issues, Drinking, Drug Use, Hand Jobs, M/M, Post-Canon, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-07
Updated: 2020-12-07
Packaged: 2021-03-10 02:21:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,167
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27926677
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dreamtiwasanarchitect/pseuds/dreamtiwasanarchitect
Summary: Eight months, one week, and four days after he stumbles out of the red Alfetta, Paul sees him again.
Relationships: Primo Nizzuto/John Paul Getty III
Comments: 23
Kudos: 45





	held

**Author's Note:**

> I have not known peace since I saw Luca Marinelli looking Like That.

Eight months, one week, and four days after he stumbles out of the red Alfetta, Paul sees him again.

At first, he thinks maybe it’s just the smack, some weird, withdrawal-induced nightmare, but no—it’s him, leaning against the bar, smoking. 

Paul feels himself freeze. It’s like he’s watching himself from above as he goes through the familiar fight-or-flight dilemma. 

Before he can move, before he’s even decided, the man’s eyes flicker up from ashing his cigarette.

Primo Nizzuto still has wild eyes, cat eyes, eyes that go from shining with innocent curiosity to glinting like you’re about to get your throat clawed out.

He inclines his head as if to say, _come, sit, chat_ and Paul knows it’s too late to run.

Resisting Primo never ended well before, he thinks, and he can feel his own body, slammed against the hood of a car, pushed into a trunk, wet fabric chafing his mouth and rope rubbing his wrists—

And then he’s approaching the bar.

He moves slowly, carefully, keeps eye contact and hopes Primo can’t see the sweat broken out on his forehead. He eases himself on to the second-nearest stool and waits. Seated like this, he’s looking up at Primo.

Primo watches him, the intense focus of his gaze so familiar. Paul could never tell if that look meant he was getting a treat—a cigarette, a bump—or if it was a prelude to a beating. 

Then Primo looks up, says something to the bartender, and there’s a measure of top-shelf brandy resting on the bar in front of him.

Primo leans in, close enough that Paul can feel his breath. “Salute,” he says, and clinks their glasses.

Paul opens his mouth, but nothing comes out. He drains his drink, and when he looks back Primo’s lips are twitching up into one of those restrained smiles that always felt like hope but more often than not signaled danger.

“What are you doing here, hippie?”

Paul cringes at the nickname. 

“Hm?”

He doesn’t owe Primo an answer at all, much less the truth, he knows that, believes that, but before he can help himself—

“I’m trying to score.” 

That gets him no response. He pushes back his sleeve and holds out his arm. Primo glances down at the track marks and leans back, silent and watching. 

Paul wipes at his forehead with the back of his hand.

“Come on,” Primo says, and he stalks out the back door. For some reason, Paul follows.

Primo still drives that red Alfetta. Paul’s not sure what it makes him feel, but it definitely makes him—something. 

His blood runs cold when Primo pats the trunk of the car, eyebrow raised. He says something Paul can’t understand and laughs. 

Paul just stares, and Primo huffs a sigh. He gets in behind the wheel and leans over to open the passenger door. His arm hangs out the window and his fingers tap a beat against the side of the car. 

Paul gets in. Primo’s driving is no less terrifying from this new vantage point. 

The wind is howling in his face. Slowly, he rolls up the window. Primo doesn’t notice, or, more likely, doesn’t care. The music is blasting, words too fast for Paul to translate, and Primo occasionally belts out the odd lyric.

They drive for awhile, and Paul is the same amount of afraid the entire time, but at one point he looks over at Primo and says, “There’s not gonna be a second ransom. In case that’s what you’re trying to do.”

Primo glances at him, mouth turned down. 

“No more money,” Paul says in Italian. 

Primo sneers. “I don’t need your fucking family’s money,” he says in heavily-accented English. 

The Alfetta’s engine roars as they ascend a hill. At the top, there’s a house—big, yes, but not Getty-big. 

The door is unlocked, and Paul wonders what that means.

Inside, the house is sparse but clean. The furniture all looks new, but peeking out from couch cushions and tucked into corners, Paul spots the odd object that shows signs of use and wear—on the armchair, an afghan that was probably brightly-knit at one point but now looks faded; on the wall, a chipped and warped wooden crucifix; and on the coffee table, a battered paper map.

“You live here?” Paul asks.

“Si,” Primo says, and he waves a hand at the furniture. “Sit.” 

Paul perches carefully on the armchair as Primo disappears further into the house. He rubs a hand over the afghan, and the scratchy texture reminds him of home, though he’s not sure where that is—not anymore, maybe not ever.

Something smacks down on the coffee table, makes him start and look up in surprise. 

“All pure,” Primo says, flapping a dismissive hand before sprawling on the couch.

Paul eyes the baggie. He thinks it’s probably a gram, which means it’s probably close to a hundred dollars worth of heroin. 

“For me?”

Primo says nothing, just stares at him beneath heavy-lidded eyes while he lights a cigarette.

Careful to telegraph every movement, Paul untwists the bag and sprinkles some of the powder onto the mirrored surface of the table. He leans over and sees his own face, drawn and clammy, blinking back at himself.

He uses the map to cut a line. He wishes he could shoot up, but Primo either doesn’t have a needle or made a conscious choice not to give him one—so either way it’s not happening.

Leaning back, he pets at the afghan, desperate for something to occupy his hands. “Thanks, man.” 

“Good?”

“Si, si.”

Fractionally, the corner of Primo’s mouth lifts. “Bene.” He blows out a long stream of smoke.

They sit in the silence for a few minutes, Primo smoking down his cigarette and Paul trying not to fidget. 

It gets easier when the drug kicks in. His limbs go heavy and he lets himself fall slack in the stiff chair. He rubs at the arm of it. “This new?”

Primo says nothing, just watches, pupils wide and dark, a blackness that might spread like spores and take root inside every part of Paul if he’s not careful—

Then again, maybe it already has. 

Paul looks away and casts his gaze around the room, landing on a record player. He glances back at Primo, then he stands and surveys the vinyl stacked on the shelves. 

“Nice collection,” he says, chancing a glance over his shoulder. “Can I—?”

Primo nods, waves his hand as if to say go ahead. 

Paul works the Aphrodite’s Child album from its sleeve, holds it with his fingertips and sets it carefully on the turntable. 

The music fills the room and the reverberations hum through his veins. He sways along, almost forgets about the eyes on the back of his neck, until he turns and Primo is still staring.

His lips twitch. “Dancing for me, hippie?” He’s amused, Paul thinks, but not mocking. 

Teasing, maybe.

Paul chances a grin and exaggerates the shift of his hips. “You could dance, too.”

To his surprise, Primo drops his cigarette in the ashtray and unfolds his long limbs. His approaches Paul, eyes gleaming, something predatory about his walk. Paul should be scared, and he is, but probably not nearly enough.

Primo stops inches away from him, and then he mirrors Paul’s movement. He’s a good dancer, fluid, in time with the beat, but there’s something almost lethargic about it, like his heart isn’t in it, or like he doesn’t want anyone to think it is. 

Paul decides to up the ante, tries to imagine he’s at the discotheque, lights strobing above and flashing beneath him. The smack makes it easy. He shuts his eyes and watches the colors dance behind his eyes. 

_I just wanna live, I just wanna groove_ , croons the record. He spins around, bouncing on the balls of his feet. His untied shoelaces snap against his ankles. He rocks up faster and faster as the tempo increases— _let me love, let me live, let me love, let me live_ —

His arm brushes against some part of Primo that’s warm and solid. The record plays on, as if nothing has happened, but Paul freezes and stares. 

Primo is staring back, eyes the color of sea glass and just as sharp. Paul can feel his heart knocking against his ribs, and for a second he wonders if he’s about to OD, but then he does something arguably more stupid—he leans forward and presses his lips to Primo’s. 

Nonsensically, Paul realizes for the first time that he actually has some height on him—but when Primo grasps his arm, he’s reminded how useless that inch or two is. He pulls away, lowers his head in anticipation of a slap, and looks at Primo’s broad hand wrapped around his bicep. The muscles moving in Primo’s forearm makes Paul think of Berto, specifically the way Primo strangled him in that field full of fucking sunflowers.

He dreams about that all the time and always wakes up hard. He can’t make sense of it.

When the expected blow doesn’t land, he glances up. Primo doesn’t look angry—which is good—but he does look suspicious, which for all Paul knows, could end up being much worse.

Primo watches for his reaction as he brings his other hand to cup Paul through his jeans. It’s absurd, and he doesn’t know when it happened, but Paul’s already a little hard. He grinds into that big hand before he can even begin to talk himself out of it.

“So,” Primo says, voice low, eyes lidded, “it’s like that.” 

Paul doesn’t really know what he means by that, but he nods anyway. “Yeah.”

With a hand on each of his shoulders, Primo nudges him to stand facing the record player. Turning his back on Primo feels like putting his head in the lion’s mouth—like asking someone to cut off his ear—but he does it anyway. 

One of Primo’s arms wraps around his waist and pulls him in, so they’re pressed back to front. He unzips Paul’s jeans and snakes a hand into his underwear. 

“Do you think of this,” Primo murmurs. His breath is hot and smells stale, like cigarettes.

“I—what do you mean?” Paul feels himself losing the plot as Primo’s calloused fingers trace up and down his cock.

“Do you think of this,” Primo says again, this time sounding annoyed. “Of me.”

Paul swallows when he realizes what he’s asking. “I have, yeah.” 

Primo makes a little satisfied noise. He’s hard, too—Paul can feel it pressing against ass. He’s never been fucked before, and he doesn’t know if that’s where this is heading, or how he feels about the prospect, but then Primo wraps his hand around his cock and all Paul can think about is pushing up into that grip.

Dimly, he’s aware of the music playing on in the background, but the only thing he really hears is the sound of Primo breathing, heavy and steady, into his ear, breath tickling his neck. Primo’s got his other hand splayed across Paul’s belly, and his fingers flex to claw at the material of his shirt. 

He feels small, scrawny, like Primo could rip him to bits with his bare hands—and he knows that Primo probably could, if he really wanted to.

But instead, he’s doing this. Getting Paul off, holding him tight, and that realization, paired with the firm, even strokes of Primo’s hand, have him coming. He lets his head tip back, back, back until it’s resting on Primo’s shoulder, lets his mouth hang open with a loud cry that drowns out the record. 

Primo’s hand keeps working until Paul’s completely spent. Paul feels like his consciousness has separated from his body, like his mind no longer controls his legs or any other extremities, but the arm around his stomach keeps him upright. 

Primo pulls his other hand from Paul’s underwear. He slides it underneath Paul’s shirt to wipe the come off it, then wraps that arm around Paul’s chest, fingers resting over his pounding heart. 

Unthinking, Paul reaches up and touches Primo’s hand, curls his fingers to touch his palm and feels the stickiness from his own spend.

The music stops. The record needs to be flipped. Neither of them move.

What’s next, Paul wonders. Will Primo want him to return the favor, or get on his knees? Will he want to fuck him? It’s not a question of if he’ll let him—with Primo, he’s never had much of a choice about what happens—but of if he’ll want it, if he’ll like it.

He feels the rise and fall of Primo’s chest at his back. They’re still almost-sort-of holding hands.

What’s next, what’s next. Will Primo take him back to the city tonight? Tomorrow? Ever? Does it matter?

The come drying in his underwear starts to cool, but Primo’s arms practically burn against him. 

Neither of them move. 

**Author's Note:**

> It's very sexy of this small fandom to go so hard for Primo/Leo, but also...I need more of the Primo/Paul dynamic, because of the way I am. Please validate my poor life choices.


End file.
